


Take the Pain

by rubygirl29



Series: I Lived [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-11 18:04:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2077863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York is home, but Clint receives unsettling news from Phil, and they learn more about the Winter Soldier. Natasha is worried, Bucky reaches out to Clint, and Steve sees glimpses of his friend that give him hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take the Pain

Chapter 1

To Clint's relief, the trip from Virginia to New York is uneventful, even if Natasha keeps as far away from Barnes as possible; tucked into a single seat at the back of Tony's luxurious private jet. Barnes sits quietly, his now paralyzed arm held quietly against his body. He looks pale and tired, but the lines of pain around his eyes and mouth have softened. Clint has spent a good part of his life in some kind of physical pain. He knows how it must wear Barnes down if even the variant of serum he received hasn't blunted it. The relief must be as exhausting as the pain.

Steve is next to Barnes. They seem to have reached some sort of detente; Steves not pushing and Barnes not resisting. Bruce, sitting across the aisle from them is watchful, but not dangerously so. Clint is sitting across from Natasha, keeping his eye on everybody, his bow case in his hands. He's pretty sure it won't be needed, but an arrow is preferable to a bullet in a pressurized cabin. 

He gets up and walks to the cockpit where Tony is sitting. He's not flying the plane; Clint isn't sure who is, other than JARVIS. If the AI can pilot one of Tony's suits, he can fly a jet as far as Clint is concerned. "How much longer?" he asks.

"Estimated time to landing is twenty minutes," JARVIS informs him. 

"You know I _can_ fly one of these," he tells Tony. 

"You're also the only person who can take down the Winter Soldier."

"His name is James."

Tony shakes his head. "I'm not convinced that 'James' is present one hundred percent of the time. Kind of like I never know if Bruce is present one hundred percent of the time. I can't afford to risk lives if the other guy feels threatened by Cap's boyfriend."

Clint deliberately does not roll his eyes. He understands what Tony is saying. He isn't sure he's the best person to trust, but he might be the _only_ person Tony trusts right now. "Let me know if you want me to pilot." He starts to leave, but Tony speaks again.

"What about Natasha? Where part does she play in this crazy dynamic?" Clint shifts his stance uncomfortably and Tony's eyes narrow. "You know something. Spill it, Barton."

"It's up to her to tell. I won't … I can't ... speak for her."

"So, there _is_ something -- and don't think I haven't tried finding it out. Whatever it is is buried even deeper than I can dig up."

"Then leave it alone!" Clint snaps. "No good can come out of forcing Natasha. For a smart man you don't get people, do you?" To his surprise, Tony smiles sheepishly.

"You got that, Barton. People are like chaos theory to me, which is why I need you."

Clint thinks they must really be in trouble if Tony Stark thinks he has any clue, but he returns to the cabin and settles next to Natasha. He surreptitiously takes her hand, lacing their fingers together. "When are you going to look at him and not see your own past?"

"I don't see how that's your business."

"'Tasha …"

She very deliberately removes her hand from his clasp and turns her head towards the window. "I have a headache."

"You've never had a headache in your life," Clint grouses, and when Natasha glares at him, he holds up his hands in surrender. "Fine. I'll leave you alone, but we are going to talk about this."

"You're not Coulson."

"I can channel him really well." He doesn't miss the twitch of her lip, and knows he's broken through her self-imposed isolation. He'll get his answer eventually. He has to, because if Cap breaks through to Barnes, she'll have to accept him again, and not as the Winter Soldier.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Stark Tower is basically a construction zone. The exterior has been repaired, but the inside shows every sign of being in renovation hell; how much of it is due to damage, and how much is due to Tony's need to obsess over making everything perfect, Clint can't say for sure. He doesn't think this is the best place to bring either Dr. Banner or James Barnes. Tony is too busy being his expansive self, to notice that both men are looking tense, and Steve has gone on high alert. Natasha is fiddling with the cuffs on her jacket - the one that conceals her widow's bites. 

Clint tugs on Tony's sleeve. "Hey, I think we need to find a place to park."

Tony stops in mid-sentence, blinks and takes a breath. "I am being a bad host, for which Pepper would admonish me severely and threaten me with her stiletto heels. I know this floor looks like … well, a disaster area, but the living areas are mostly finished." He sounds so earnest and hopeful that Clint can sense the uncertainty under the bravado. 

"Living quarters?" he prompts.

"Follow me … " 

They do, and movement seems to dispel some of the tension that had been ratcheting up. A door opens into a large, open space with a view of the city. There is a theater-sized TV, suspended from the ceiling. Off that room Clint can see a state-of-the-art kitchen that makes him want to weep. 

Tony is still looking like he expects people to yell at him. "I … umm, took the liberty of giving everybody a suite. Clint and Romanov on the top floor with the indoor range and gym, Thor below then, then Cap below that. Bruce, you're on the floor with the lab, and I'm also on that floor. Right now everything is kind of undecorated, but they're comfortable and liveable. Go. Unpack. Anything you need, ask JARVIS."

Steve takes a breath. "What about James?"

Tony looks at Bruce, then at Barnes. "If you're up to it, we'd like to evaluate that prosthetic, first.

"You can stay with me," Steve offers, but Bucky doesn't meet his eyes. 

"I have a choice?"

"Of course you have a choice," Steve says, a little too quickly. "Tony?"

"There is a room on the same floor as the lab. You'd be comfortable there."

"Thank you," Bucky says formally. "I will stay there."

If Steve looks like a kicked puppy, nobody comments on it. They disperse; Clint and Natasha taking the elevator to their floor. Clint's door is marked by a wrought iron arrow, Natasha's by a black rose. She snorts at it, but doesn't look displeased. 

"Put your gear down and come talk to me?" Clint asks. 

"You don't give me orders," she says, a faint chill in her voice.

Clint sighs in exasperation. "It was an invitation. Geez, Nat. Your perspective is gone to shit."

She whirls on him. "My perspective is fine! You're the one willing to take a viper to your heart. Why do you always do that? Why do you always think that people are better than they are?"

Clint blinks. "Because they usually are."

"Time and again, you get hurt. Time and again, I've seen you take the pain. Why do you do that?"

He gently brushes a strand of her hair from her cheek. "Come see me, Nat. I don't think the corridor is the place to have this conversation." 

Her eyes narrow, but she nods. "In an hour. I need some time." With that, she opens the door and vanishes inside. 

Clint presses his thumb to the biometric lock on his door. He steps inside the open space. It's pretty damn magnificent. The view of New York is stunning; the spire of the Freedom Tower rising in the mid distance, the sun glittering off the surface of the East River, and beyond that, the ocean. The furnishing is minimal; a long gray couch, a pair of recliners that look insanely comfortable, a huge TV that has a note on it reading: _Use the remote to raise and lower the screen_. Clint looks at the remote and pushes the button on the word "hide." The screen lifts soundlessly into the ceiling. There are bookshelves on one wall with a collection of his favorite movies, and a photo of Phil and himself on their wedding day; both in suits with white roses in their lapels in front of the New York Public Library. The only other pictures are on the wall separating the dining area from the kitchen. They are schematics of bows through history. Some of them are antique and must have cost a fortune. Clint realizes that Tony, despite his flaws, is a man who keeps his friends close to heart. 

The bedroom has a king-sized bed, simple dark furniture, and neutral walls. It's a blank palette, perfect for Phil and him to make their own. It makes him ache for Phil. As if on cue, his phone buzzes. He turns on the face-time, and there is Phil. He looks better than he did; the bruises not quite as livid and the cuts healing. His eyes are very blue and a little tired. "Where are you?" he asks, and Clint smiles. "I'm in our bedroom."

"It doesn't look like our bedroom."

"Well, it will be our room if Tony has his way. It's in Stark Tower, and it's pretty awesome. I mean we don't have to give up our apartment, but when we're here, it's gonna be sweet to have our own space."

He can hear Phil sigh. "You don't know, do you?"

"Know what? You aren't coming home?"

"Fury was here. Clint … he passed the torch. I'm … God, I'm Director Coulson."

Clint's hands go numb. "What … what does that mean for us?"

"It means that I won't be in New York until we start getting the new S.H.I.E.L.D. up and running. It means it could be _months_ before I get back there."

Clint closes his eyes. "Do you still love me?"

"More than my life," Phil says softly. "I'm going to try to get there as soon as possible. HYDRA is still active and we have so few operatives left. My team … Maria, a few loyal agents that have tried to contact us to help them …" 

"You have me. You have Natasha." His voice sounds thick and distant.

"Clint … you're an Avenger, not a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, as is Natasha. We need you with the team. The world no longer trusts S.H.I.E.L.D., but they still trust the Avengers."

"Well, they might not now that we have the Winter Soldier." 

Phil looks stunned. "You have him where?"

"Here. Listen, I know what you're going to say, but you haven't met him. The guy is in pain, he's trying to deal with his past, his programming by HYDRA, with all these emotions bouncing around like ping-pong balls inside his head. He's not a bad guy, Phil. I think we can help him, and if we can show that we're not like HYDRA, he'll be okay -- I mean -- he'll go back to being Bucky Barnes."

"What does Natasha say?"

"She's not saying anything. Fuck, she's hardly talking to me at all."

"I wish I could help," Phil's frustration is in his voice, in the set of his shoulders. "I wish I could be there."

"Yeah. Me, too." 

"Keep me in the loop somehow. Even if you have to go through Hill."

Clint has an idea. "Phil, what if I can get Tony to set you up with JARVIS?"

"I don't want to risk compromising the Avengers."

"I can _ask_."

He sees the door open behind Phil and Skye looking in. "AC, we can use some help, here."

"I have to go," he tells Clint. "I love you."

Clint just sighs and touches the screen as it fades out. There is a knock at the door and Clint speaks, "JARVIS, let Agent Romanov in, okay? And program my lock so she can have access."

"Yes, sir." 

The door opens and Natasha strolls in. She's wearing jeans and a loose t-shirt that he recognizes as one of his own. "Stealing my clothes, Nat?"

"You left it years ago. I like it."

"I wasn't going to take it back," Clint says. "Want a drink? I don't know what Tony stocked in the fridge."

"I don't want anything."

"Maybe I do." Clint isn't used to this distance from Natasha. It's unsettling. He truly hopes there is something alcoholic in the refrigerator. Of course there is: Clint's favorite beer. He opens a bottle and takes a deep swig before he goes back to the living room. Natasha is standing by the window. 

"Nice view." 

"Tony knows what he's doing." 

"I'm not so sure about that."

"Okay, Nat. Stop the bullshit and talk to me. What the hell is going on?"

"You are trusting a man who for years has been a hunter and a killer. He cannot change just because you show him kindness."

"Crap, Nat. We've been over this already. What is wrong with you?"

The color drains from her face. "I have scars, Clint. I have scars that man gave me. I slept with him, and he tried to kill me! He knows my secrets, he knows that I am afraid of him --" Her voice cracks and then it's as if an emotional dam has cracked as well and she's crying in his arms. 

Clint holds her close. The last time she cried was when she told him Loki had killed Coulson. They had cried together then. He doesn't know how to deal with this fractured Natasha. For so long she had been so hard. It had taken Coulson years to wear down those walls, to allow her to be more than a killer. It was what he had done for Clint. It was why he had fallen in love with the man. He has to think about Phil, what Phil would say. 

"We have to take a chance, Tasha, just like Phil did with us. I believe that the worst that can happen is that Barnes bolts. I don't think he'll murder us in our beds. Cap believes in him, and if we don't believe in Cap, we're all in trouble." He lifts her chin. "You trust Cap. You told me you do, so we have to take Cap on faith."

"You've been talking to Coulson." Natasha never looks like she's been crying, and she doesn't now. She looks calm, strong. 

"Tell me you weren't playing me like a violin."

She shrugs. "Not entirely. I wanted to know you were certain. I needed to know you were certain, because I trust you more than I trust anybody. I do trust Cap, but I trust you more." She kisses his cheek and leaves silently. 

Clint finishes his beer, takes a quick shower and heads down to the lab.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Tony and Bruce are standing in front of a display that looks like a colorful 3-D x-ray. Clint know he probably won't understand a word the two scientists are saying, but he's intrigued by the display. He doesn't interrupt, but settles on a lab stool and listens. 

"I've never seen anything like this," Tony says. "It's amazing and appalling at the same time. Tell me what I'm looking at."

Bruce studies the image for a while before he speaks. "This isn't his first prosthetic. The first one was primitive compared to later versions, but they had reached the point of experimenting with early solenoid technology. You can see where they embedded the power source in the scapula. The next iteration was more sophisticated mechanically, but it was most likely the one that did the worst damage to the nerve fibers. There were adjustments made, I believe, over a span of time before the current arm was attached. It's amazing, really, as a piece of technology, but if you look at the x-rays, you can see it is slowly eroding the bone, exposing the nerves, and causing the pain. The bastards could have done something at that point to help, but they didn't."

Clint feels a little sickened by the casual brutality done to Barnes in the name of science, but he speaks up. "Can you help him with something other than drugs?"

Tony strokes his beard thoughtfully. "Give me a few days. A new prosthetic probably isn't the answer, but a power source upgrade and some adjustments might make it less of an instrument of torture." Tony's voice is taut with anger, and Bruce steps away and takes some deep breaths. He holds up his hand, indicating that he's all right. When he looks at Clint, his eyes are dark and soft. 

"We'll do our best. Until we figure it out, I'm afraid the drugs are the only thing we can offer."

"Where is he now?"

"With Cap. So far, things are quiet."

Clint nods. "That's good. Tony, I have a favor to ask?"

"Ask away."

"Phil called. Fury showed up and passed the title to Him. He's now Director Coulson."

"At least Agent likes me," Tony grins. "Good for him." When he sees Clint's expression he adds, But bad for you?"

"Yeah, it pretty much sucks to be us right now, but I was wondering, can you hook up the Bus with JARVIS?" 

"Finally, a problem I can solve." Tony's mouth quirks up. "Get his computer to talk to my computers and he and JARVIS can be best buds. But … it won't have all of JARVIS, not his AI personality. That's mine. But functionally, sure."

"Thank you." 

"Anything for Agent. It's the least I can do after he died, sort of, for us."

Clint swallows the lump in his throat. "I'll let him know. This … it means a lot to me, Tony."

Tony just waves him off. "Go, distract somebody else. How's your brain-twin?"

"She's … she's Natasha."

"Well, that explains nothing, but as long as you know what you're talking about, get out of here so I can figure out this prosthetic thing."

Clint leaves. He texts Coulson to tell him to have Skye get in touch with Tony. There isn't an immediate reply. He's suddenly exhausted. He flops down on the couch in the common area and falls asleep. He isn't sure how long he's been out when something wakes him up. He opens his eyes. The room is lit with dimmed lights and the sunset is fading as the city lights come up. There is a dark shape huddled in one of the chairs. 

At first Clint thinks it's Steve, until the figure moves and the lights play off the metal skin of Barnes' prosthetic. He's curled into the seat of the recliner, looking much smaller than he is. Clint sits up slowly, not wanting to alarm him. "Hey," he says softly. "James?"

"I was hungry."

"Where's Steve?"

"He is with Stark."

"Hmm. Tony has a pretty amazing kitchen. I can probably make something. You like eggs?"

"I think so …"

"Scrambled, fried, an omelet?"

Barnes shrugs. "You choose."

Clint pads into the kitchen and looks at the contents of the refrigerator. Eggs, butter, bacon in the meat drawer, green onions, and a red pepper. It's like he ordered it. "Omelet," he decides, and sets to work. He's aware that Barnes has moved from the chair to a stool at the island, but he makes an effort to ignore the itch between his shoulder blades. When he's finished, he plates the omelet and sets it in front of Barnes. 

Barnes takes a tentative forkful, chews and smiles slightly. "It's good," he says.

"I learned to cook in the army. My sergeant and I had a contest going to see who could cook the best meal out of what we had on hand when we were in the field."

"Did you win?"

"Nah, his family owned a restaurant, but I learned a lot from him. After I left the army, I worked in a few diners in New York until S.H.I.E.L.D. came calling." 

Bucky pauses, and Clint expects everything but what he asks next. "Is that how you met Steve?"

"No, Cap was still under the ice."

"But you knew of Captain America?" 

"Sure, every kid knows Captain America. I had a comic book when I was a kid. I read it over and over until it fell apart. I tried putting it back together. The idea that somebody would fight for those who couldn't -- that meant a lot to a kid whose dad used his fists to get his point across. I … I saw myself in pre-serum Steve and I hoped my brother would be my Bucky Barnes. I was a kid, I believed in heroes."

"Now you don't?"

"For a long time I didn't, until I met Phil Coulson. He had a bigger crush on Captain America than I did. You should see his collection. He even has the same comic book I did, only his didn't fall apart."

"I-I would like to see it."

"I'll see if I can get one for you. Maybe Tony even has a copy in his library."

"Why aren't you afraid of me? Why are you kind when I have tried to kill your friends?"

"First, maybe I'm not the brightest bulb in the package and second, you haven't done anything since we captured you to make me believe you mean to hurt us." 

"I've killed people."

"Hell, so have I. We're not so different, only I wasn't programmed to be an assassin. I chose to be one. You should be more scared of me than I am of you."

"I, too, must not be the brightest bulb in the package." A smile ghosts across his lips and Clint laughs.

"We'll leave the brains to Stark and Bruce."

"They are trying to help me?" He sounds wistful. 

"We all are."

"Not Natasha." 

"She's just mad because she can't wear a bikini because of the scar." It's more complicated than that, but Clint wants to deflect the conversation away from Tasha as quickly as possible. 

"Scar?"

Clint shakes his head. "Tasha will be fine. Listen, Tony has this amazing movie collection. Have you seen Ghostbusters?"

"No."

"We'll start with that." He's pretty sure there isn't anything in the movie to trigger Barnes. He might even enjoy seeing parts of New York that are familiar. An hour later, Steve finds them sitting next to each other on the big couch. Clint is holding his sides, laughing so hard his ribs hurt. Bucky is smiling, actually _smiling_ , and Steve watches for a moment, seeing his friend back in the world for that moment before he leaves them alone.


	2. Why Stir Up Memories?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve connects with Bucky, but the memories aren't complete. Tony and Bruce find a way to help Bucky. Bucky believes he will never be safe from HYDRA and plans to find a way to keep HYDRA away from his new-found allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know virtually nothing about the field of biomedical engineering other than what I've discovered on Google. I leave it to Tony and Bruce to find a way to help Bucky. My only defense is that this is Sci-Fi and Tony is a genius. 
> 
> Here is a video and an article that explain what is possible now for amputees with the sort of injury Bucky must have sustained. 
> 
>  
> 
> [ NYT Video ](http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/27/us/prosthetic-arms-a-complex-test-for-amputees.html?pagewanted=all&_r=1&)

Chapter 2

_Steve_

Steve is scarcely aware of the movement of his charcoal pencil over the sketch pad. Sometimes it happens like this when he's lonely or stressed or missing his 'old' life. Right now, he's feeling all three. He's been working on this drawing for a while and he stops to stretch out his fingers. He thinks about Bucky watching the movie with Clint; the smile on his face, the way his body was relaxed, free of the ever-present tension evident since they captured him. He's jealous, just a little, of the seemingly easy friendship that has grown between Clint and Bucky. He owes Clint for bringing Bucky this far back to what he should be, but he still wishes it could be him. 

He stands up and stretches. Tony has done a great job here, making his quarters comfortable without forcing his own powerful personality on the space. He still misses his old apartment in DC, thoroughly ruined, and unlikely to be his again. He notices Tony has replaced some of his music collection, even the old vinyl LPs, and provided a turntable with the stereo system. He picks up a record and starts the stereo. The strains of _Don't Get Around Much Anymore_ , static and all, fill the room. It's ironic, because he seems to get around a lot, lately. 

There is a soft scratch at his door and Steve opens it. Bucky is standing there, looking like he's about to bolt or back away. It's too late. He's frozen in place and uncertain which choice is the most wise, apparently. Steve knows the feeling. He'll have to make the first move to resolve this, otherwise they'll be stuck here for so long it will be really awkward for both of them. 

"Come in," he invites, pitching his voice soft and low, like Bucky is a wild creature come to light on his doorstep. 

Bucky hesitates. "I shouldn't be here."

"But you are, so come in." Bucky steps inside, barely crossing the threshold. "Did you like the movie?" Steve queries. 

"Why do people always ask what I like?"

"Simple interest. It's not a trap. We're not looking for weapons to use against you. If you like eggs, that's great, we'll fix them everyday for you. If you like watching movies, we aren't going to take that away from you." Steve tries, and fails, to keep the frustration from his voice. 

Bucky looks away from him, a slight flush on his cheeks. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that it should sound like I am ungrateful."

The slightly stilted grammar is jarring to Steve, remembering Bucky's easy slang and cheerful banter. He won't say anything about it, fearing that if he does, the man will stop talking at all. 

"Come in," he repeats. "I don't have anything stronger than Coca Cola, but I'll share what I've got."

Bucky takes another step and looks around the room. "It's very big."

"Tony doesn't do things in a small way. Ever." He smiles. "I have some decorating to do."

Another step inside and Bucky tilts his head. "I know this music."

"Duke Ellington."

"I've heard it before."

"You probably have," Steve keeps his voice neutral. "I'll get the drinks. Have a seat." When he returns to the living room, Bucky is sitting on the couch, Steve's drawing in his hands. 

"What place is this?"

"The neighborhood where we - where I grew up. Most of the buildings are still there. The one I lived in is gone, though. After the war, it was razed and they built a shoe factory. Now, that building is being converted to loft apartments. The circle of life."

"Brooklyn?"

Steve's heart leaps. "Yeah. Have you been there?"

"I remember it," Bucky sounds puzzled, lost. "I don't know why." He looks like he's ready to make a dash for the corridor. Steve is done dancing around issues. Either Bucky will remember, or he won't. Steve can't protect him from his memories, he can only give them back piece by piece. 

"Don't run out on me if I tell you something, okay? Please?"

A slight nod. "I will stay."

"You lived in Brooklyn. You and me both, back before World War II."

"Is that why I remember the music?"

"I don't know. Like I said, the tune is a classic."

"I remember … " He shakes his head, his hair falls across his face. "I remembered you. That is why they hurt me by taking that away. When I would start remembering things, they would force me to forget."

"How?" 

"They did things to my brain. They said they were wiping my memories because they were bad for me; they were making me less than I was meant to be."

"But you still remembered?"

Bucky shrugs. "The more they used their machines, the less they were able to clear my memories. I never told them that."

"Why?" Steve asks.

Bucky looks ashamed. "I-I didn't want to forget. I don't know how much is true, or what I imagined, or what I want. I fought them, but they still made me do things that shame me. To kill and to hurt, to fight … to fight _you_ , to try to kill _you."_

Steve smiles slightly. "You didn't, and in the end you saved me, so let's cross that off the list."

He lifts up his head. He actually meets Steve's eyes. "It's that simple for you?"

"Yes." 

The music ends and Bucky stands up. "I have to leave."

"Stay." Steve takes a breath. "We don't have to talk. Just … stay." 

Bucky looks at him uncertainly. "Why?'

"You came here for a reason. Whatever it is doesn't matter to me. What matters is that you're here." He goes into the kitchen for more ice. When he comes out, Bucky is still there, looking at the sketch as if imprinting it on his memory. "You can have it."

Bucky shakes his head. "I can't."

"Yeah, you can. It's just a sketch. Nobody is going to pay me a million dollars for it. I want you to have it. Maybe it will make this world seem a little less strange. When … if … you feel like it, I'll take you there and you can see what it looks like today."

"You can't trust me."

"Let me decide that." He sits on the far end of the sofa from Bucky, who is still perched on the edge of the cushion. He puts the ice in their glasses. Bucky reaches for his tentatively with his good arm. He brings it to his lips and takes a sip, then surprisingly, he smiles. "I have not had this in a long time."

"It's not the same as it was in the old days, but close enough when I feel nostalgic."

"And that is how you feel tonight?"

"Yeah," Steve sighs. "I guess I do." 

The music drifts into their silence. Bucky's head comes up. "Glenn Miller. _String of Pearls._ " 

Steve's heart nearly stops. "That's right." 

"I have heard this before?" It's a whispered question. Steve can only nod. 

"Yeah, you have." Bucky remains silent until the music fades away. He's relaxed marginally, and there is a wistful curve to his mouth. He sets his half-empty glass down. 

"Thank you, but I should leave now. Dr. Banner is waiting to give me another injection."

Steve holds out the drawing. "Take it. I want you to have it." Bucky takes it carefully, as if it were precious, and not just a piece of paper with a semi-finished sketch on it. Steve walks him to the door. They don't say anything, but Bucky nods and gives him a tiny smile as the door opens and he leaves. 

Steve doesn't know if he wants to cry or give himself a high five for finally making a small inroad through the layers of fear, doubt and pain the HYDRA programming has imposed on his friend. Being a positive kind of guy, he decides to see it as a victory. He wonders if Bucky feels the same. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
 _Bucky_

He keeps hearing the music in his mind. Words come to him, _I guess my mind's more at ease, But nevertheless, why stir up memories?_ , and he thinks of Steve, and the picture and the sweet taste of the cola on his tongue. It's all familiar, in the way places he's visited long ago are familiar. He sees them all through a sepia haze -- and the word reminds him of Captain Rogers. Of Steve. He looks at the drawing in his hands and wishes he could see it. Maybe if he saw it, he'd remember what it was like to be Bucky Barnes. 

_I'm lost,_ he realizes. He doesn't know the corridor. Panic flutter is his chest, then he remembers JARVIS. He doesn't know if the AI will respond to him, but if he continues to wander, they might catch him and punish him for straying from his keepers. "JARVIS?" 

"Yes, sir?"

"I am lost."

"I will send Agent Barton to you, sir."

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"Not at all. Sir has given me instructions to assist all of his guests."

"I am not a guest," Bucky sighs, and then gives a short laugh when he realizes he is talking to a computer.

"I rather think you are," JARVIS replies. "I have no instructions otherwise."

"I will wait here," Bucky says, and sinks down to the floor, resting his back against the wall. His shoulder hurts. He closes his eyes and wonders if they really will come for him. He thinks if he were any kind of soldier he would be looking for weapons, looking for a way out. He isn't sure that he is a soldier any more. Maybe he turned his back on that the day he dragged Captain America out of the Potomac. The red star on his arm looks like blood, the edges faded and congealing. It is like a brand, marking him as The Winter Soldier, marking him as HYDRA's. He isn't his own man. He's nothing, he belongs to no one. He is gone to ashes and only his bones are left. 

"Hey, buddy, you okay?"

He looks up. Clint crouches next to him. "Man, you look rough. Maybe we ought to get you to the Doc."

Bucky nods, but doesn't speak. Clint rises and holds out his hand. "Come on, you can do this."

He lets Barton pull him upright. The archer isn't the biggest man, but he's strong and agile. "I am all right," Bucky finally says. "My shoulder hurts, and I was lost."

Clint gives him a charming, one-sided smile. "Well, now you're found, as the song says."

"Song?"

" _Amazing Grace_. Maybe you don't remember it."

" _Was blind but now I see_ … " The words come unbidden to him. He looks at Clint in near panic as memories wash over him like relentless waves. His knees buckle and Clint drops down to the floor, still holding him. 

"JARVIS! Get Tony and Bruce down here. Medical emergency!"

"No! I will be all right," Bucky gasps. He doesn't want help. He wants desperately to remember something _anything_ that doesn't end with him in pain. He shakes off Clint's grip and struggles upright. 

"You sure about that?" Clint asks.

"Yes."

"JARVIS, cancel that emergency. We'll walk there on our own."

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, yeah. That's what we all say. At least let Bruce take a look at that shoulder, okay?"

Bucky nods. He knows this is an argument he isn't going to win. He lets Clint support him down to the lab where Tony and Bruce are waiting. Clint helps Bucky up to the examination table. He crouches, so he's not looming over Barnes. "I'll stay if you want me to."

Bucky looks around and sees only concern on the their faces; not cruelty, not harsh assessment. He shakes his head, admitting for the first time that he might trust these people. They seem to trust him despite the programming, despite everything he's done. 

Clint's grip on his arm is firm but gentle. "Okay, but if you change your mind all you have ask."

"Why?" Bucky's voice is so quiet that Clint barely hears it.

"Because I'm that kind of guy," He grins and winks which makes Bucky want to smile, but showing that much emotion is dangerous; it exposes too much. 

Banner is preparing another shot. "I can repeat this one more time. Is there anything you can tell me about the procedures that will help me understand how to help you?"

Bucky swallows hard. "Just you," he says, his eyes going to Stark. He doesn't know why he doesn't want to reveal the details to Tony. The sharp intelligence in those brown eyes is too familiar, too intimate, and he doesn't know why. 

Clint's hand is warm on his arm. "Tony should be here. He needs to be here."

Bucky is silent for more than a few heartbeats, but he finally agrees. Clint steps back. "Okay, doc." 

Bruce touches his shoulder lightly. "Is the pain the same or different that it was the last time?"

"Different. Less … sharp. It hurts more here …" His fingers trail across his collarbone. 

Tony shakes his head. "That old solenoid needs to come out. The corroding wires are eating away at the bone."

Bucky sighs. "Cut it out." He strips off his shirt and doesn't even blink at the horrified expressions on Tony and Bruce's faces. Why should they be horrified? The HYDRA doctors hadn't cared. They just got out the bone saw and scalpel. 

Tony recovers first. He's had first-hand experience with primitive surgical techniques and less than stellar anaesthesia. "Look, I don't know what was done to you in the past, but here, we don't do surgery without anaesthesia. We don't hack around your bones without diagnostics, and we don't use medical procedures as torture." 

Bucky opens his mouth to reply and no words come. He looks from Bruce, whose skin has a faint greenish cast, to Clint who has his arm slung around Banner's shoulder. Clint nods, and Bucky has no choice. His shoulders slump in defeat. "I will have the surgery."

"Excellent. First up, x-rays." 

"Now?" Bucky asks. 

"No time like the present. You can't _like_ being in pain."

He doesn't, but he's wary of being put under, of not knowing what they will do to him. He's on the verge of refusing when the door opens and Steve comes in, his eyes going right to Bucky's. Bucky can tell Steve seems to know what's going on. He gives Clint a murderous look, which Barton shrugs off, which Bucky finds annoying. 

"What are you doing here?" Bucky asks Steve. Surely isn't working when he looks at Steve's open, honest face.

"Keeping you company while you have surgery."

"I don't need company."

"No, you probably don't, but I'm here and I'm not leaving until the surgery is over, so live with it."

He's tired of asking these people why they're so determined to help him. He doesn't understand, but pain is exhausting. He knows HYDRA will come after him and he will have to be able to fight them and run. If these people can help him, he will vanish so completely HYDRA will never find him, or know that they helped him. That's the greatest mercy he can grant them. He looks at Dr. Banner. "I'm ready."

Bucky doesn't know why Tony is smiling, or why Bruce looks relieved; but Clint and Steve are there, and for some reason, that makes it easier when Tony walks him out of the lab and into the medical facility.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
He drifts up through the layers of anaesthesia; his senses slowly coming back to reality. Sound is the first. He's aware of the soft beeping of medical equipment, the rustle of paper from the corner of the room, the faint buzz of music in the background that finally melds into a tune he recognizes from his past, _It's Been a Long, Long Time._. He opens his eyes, blinking in sunlight. He lies there taking stock of his body. There is the pull of stitches around his collarbone, a dull ache in his shoulder that isn't anywhere near the bone-crushing pain he's lived with for years. His mouth is dry, so he thinks maybe they gave him drugs to dull the pain -- something HYDRA had never bothered with. Paper rustled again and he turns his head to the sound. Steve is sitting at his bedside reading a newspaper. "You breathe too loud," Bucky rasps and Steve peers around the newspaper at him. 

"Welcome back," he says. He puts the paper down and picks up a cup. 

He holds it to Bucky's lips, and the cold slide of ice chips in his dry mouth feels like heaven. "Thank you," seems innocuous enough. Bucky tries not to look into Steve's impossibly blue and concerned eyes. It doesn't work and a pain that is more than physical makes his chest ache. He stifles it. Caring is a dangerous thing. 

Steve speaks into the air, "JARVIS, tell Tony and Bruce that Sergeant Barnes is awake."

"Yes, sir." 

"I thought I had imagined all this," Bucky says. 

"I know how that is," Steve says sympathetically. He doesn't have a chance to say more.

Bruce and Tony jostle through the door, Bruce winning out because he's the doctor. He looks at the monitors and silences them. He approaches Bucky cautiously, his stethoscope in his hand. "May I?" he asks, waiting for Bucky to agree.

Bucky nods. The metal is cool on his skin. Bruce nods and folds up the scope after a minute. "Perfect. How's the pain?"

Bucky shrugs with his right shoulder. "Better?"

"You're not sure?"

Bucky considers. "It is not as sharp. So, better?"

Tony stands by the bed. "Can you move your left arm?"

"Not too high --" Bruce breaks in. "Just raise it a few inches."

He does, and Tony waves a small device over the arm and the bandaged area on his shoulder. "I took out the old solenoid and replaced it with a non-reactive titanium one. The new power source should last for years without causing pain. If it does, we'll try something else, just don't wait until you're crippled. I can fix it." 

Bucky thinks it's odd how they really believe he'll stick around. He moves his fingers; the metallic skin flexing with scarcely a thought. "What else did you do?"

"I … ah, updated the way the muscles and nerves in your shoulder interface with the receptors in your arm. Sort of like the way the suit works for Iron Man. Cool, huh?"

They've made him a better weapon than HYDRA ever had. He's grateful for that alone. It will make his leaving easier. He can rest, eat, prepare and escape. They will trust him as Bucky, but he will leave as Yasha and make his way in the world as a hunter and a killer. 

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Bruce have used their skills to help the Winter Soldier, but is he ready to accept that he is James "Bucky" Barnes? Steve and Clint plan a day away from Avengers Towers with disastrous results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on this story slowly, but that's my life. I now have an awesome beta, "weepingnaiad" who has really tightened up this chapter and corrected my mistakes. Thank you so much!

_Bucky_

When Bucky wakes up the next morning, his pain is just a ghost of a lingering ache in his clavicle. He can move his arm easily, with a wider range of motion than he's had for a long time. The scarring is minimal and looks delicate compared to the old, rough scars from the brutal surgeries that the HYDRA doctors had done. 

He swings his legs over the side of the bed; there are clean clothes at the foot; a long sleeved black knit shirt, black fatigue pants, socks and underwear. His boots are clean and set on the floor. They don't seem to be planning on keeping him in bed. That puzzles him briefly until he realizes that they have had experience with Steve's enhanced physiology. 

He knows enough and has overheard the HYDRA scientists discuss his capabilities to understand that he did not receive the same serum Steve did. They told him he was put in stasis to preserve his abilities and extend his youth. He doesn't know what will happen without the stasis; if he'll weaken and age, if he'll die quickly or linger like a withered leaf. He's frightened, and he can't stay here and see the pity in their eyes as they watch him die. 

He's dressed and about to try opening a vent to escape when the door opens and Clint comes in. He sees Bucky's hand reaching for the grate and grins. "Good plan, but it won't work. I'll fit in there but you won't. It's so embarrassing being stuck like a cork in a bottle, take it from somebody who knows."

"I wasn't --"

"Hey, you can lie to me all you want and it won't make a bit of difference. It'll disappoint the hell out of Steve, insult Tony, and, trust me, you don't want to make Bruce angry or upset."

Buck folds himself back on the bed. "I was looking for a way out."

"Then you're in luck. I came to get you out -- after Tony and Bruce take a look at their handiwork. You can do that much, right?"

Bucky wants to curse Clint for being so damn cheerful, so damn perceptive, and so fucking charming. Instead he nods. He'll find a way out. He always does. 

Bruce and Tony arrive shortly. Bucky wonders if they're ever more than two feet from each other. He's never seen one without the other. It would be rude to ask. He holds out his hand to Tony and curls the fingers one by one into a fist. "It works," he says.

"Of course it does. Take off your shirt, please."

Bucky smirks. "You like to watch?"

Tony just laughs. "In your dreams. C'mon, soldier boy, I want to see how the implant is healing."

"It's healing."

"I'd like to see that for myself." Tony raises a brow and Bucky obliges. Tony tilts his head appraisingly. "Good range of motion," he says. When Bucky sets his shirt aside, Tony gently touches the nearly healed incision. "No swelling. Do you feel anything when you move your arm?"

"Like pain?"

"Pain, heat, anything unusual?"

Bucky really hadn't thought. He frowns and considers for a moment. "No pain or heat."

Tony offers a metal stool on casters. "Raise it as high as you can without pain."

Bucky obliges, raising it to waist height before he feels a faint tug on healing muscles. "I used to feel something … almost a vibration, inside my shoulder."

"Do you feel it now?"

"No."

"See, I fixed it." Tony looks inordinately pleased with himself. 

Bruce steps in. "Mind if I take a look at how he is physically before you start congratulating yourself?"

"Sure. Knock yourself out. I'm still a genius."

Bruce gives him a raspberry, and Bucky, unaccountably smiles. It's fleeting, gone before Bruce can see it, but Clint, whose eyes see nearly everything, winks at Bucky. Bruce touches his skin gently, tells Bucky to relax and let him manipulate the prosthesis. It moves easily and Bucky only winces when Bruce presses the limb to its limits. He stops as soon as he feels Bucky tense. Finally, he steps back and nods. "You heal fast, like Steve."

"Yes."

"That's good to know. Meanwhile, you should still rest. No heavy exercise or lifting until I give you the go-ahead. Your blood still has traces of a toxin in it -- probably heavy metal from the corroding solenoid. I'd like to monitor that for a while to make sure its clearing from your system."

Bucky nods. He has no intention to stay here for more than a day. He still has to find a way out, but he won't be able to do that while he's in this lab. "Can I get out of here?" he asks, waiting for Tony and Bruce to answer, but he's looking at Clint. 

Bruce folds his arms. "There isn't any reason to keep you here."

"Where do you want to go?" Clint asks.

"To see Steve?"

"Sure." 

Bucky pulls on the t-shirt easily. He knows Tony and Bruce are watching him. There is no reason. Nothing hurts. He puts on his boots and ties the laces. Whatever Tony has done to his arm has made his fingers more agile. He looks at his hand as he flexes it and smiles. "It's good," he says, as if surprised.

"Hey, I do good work," Tony says. "Take care of it."

Bucky doesn't remember how to laugh or joke, but the warmth in his chest is something he recalls as pleasure. To show more than gratitude would reveal vulnerability. He nods to Tony and Bruce and follows Clint out the door.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
 _Steve_

Steve is punching the hell out of a heavy bag in the gym. Leave it to Tony to reinforce it so that it doesn't break under the unrelenting assault. He almost wishes it would, because he wants to feel the fabric weaken and rupture. He's not a violent man, but he is a fighter, a warrior, and a soldier who has a lot of demons to release. He battles the bag until his shirt is drenched and sweat runs into his eyes. He gives the bag a final punch then steps back, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He turns, reaching for the towel on top of his gym bag, and Bucky is standing there, holding the towel out to him. 

Steve takes it from him and wipes his face off. "I thought Bruce would keep you in the medical floor longer."

"Why? I'm healed." 

Steve can see that, but there are still dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks are too hollow. He could use about a month of high-calorie meals before he doesn't look raw-boned and oddly fragile. 

"Where's your keeper?"

"Barton? He let me in and left. He doesn't think I'm going to kill you."

Steve blinks at that. "Are you?"

"No. Why would you think that?" He's puzzled by Steve's expression. 

Steve drapes the towel around his neck. "On the helicarrier you said I was your mission."

"I don't remember."

It's just as well, Steve thinks, because he isn't sure that Bucky can't kill him, even now. It hurts not to trust his best friend -- his former best friend -- who has been as altered and scarred by the last seventy years as Steve.

"You hungry?" Steve asks. 

Bucky nods. 

"Let's get something to eat. Mind if Clint tags along?"

"We're going out?" Bucky's eyes widen. 

"You can't get a real Coney Island dog if you're not at Coney Island. I need to clean up. Come up to my place for a few minutes?" Again the nod. He follows Steve silently.

Steve finds his silence unnerving. Bucky was never quiet. He was loud, jocular, wise-cracking, not silent until he had a rifle in his hand and a target in his sights. Steve suddenly realizes he's just described Clint. No wonder Bucky was more comfortable with Clint than any of the other Avengers. He speaks to JARVIS asking him to let Clint know they will be going out for lunch and he's welcome to come along. 

"You don't trust me enough to be alone with me?"

Steve gives Bucky a one-sided smile as he ties his boots. "Should I?"

Bucky doesn't answer, which is answer enough. Steve stands up. He's taller than Bucky, but Bucky's frame is broader: Brute force vs. athletic grace, though Steve knows exactly how fast and agile the Winter Soldier is. He doesn't know how much of the man standing in front of him is Bucky, or how much is the assassin. The thought sends a shiver down his spine. He's glad Clint will be joining them. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
 _Clint_

Tony can't leave well enough alone. He follows Clint through the corridors, talking a blue streak about … about whatever Tony wants to talk about, until Clint rounds on him. "We'll be okay. We're not five years olds."

"Your reasoning is about on that level. You're really taking him out? A brainwashed, damaged Soviet-era assassin who a week ago was beating Steve to death?"

Clint rounds on him so fast that Tony nearly bumps into his chest. "I'm pretty sure that last time I checked, you were enabling said assassin by fixing his arm -- which is a weapon, by the way."

Tony opens his mouth to argue and falls silent. "Okay, point taken. I - I just feel responsible, because technically you are under my protection."

Clint raises a brow. "Really? I don't think Cap would see it that way."

"Coulson would."

"Ouch. Low blow there, Stark."

Tony grins, but his eyes are still concerned. Clint pauses when they reach Steve's door. Clint presses his thumb to the keypad and it allows him guest access. He and Tony step inside. Steve and Bucky are drinking coffee, and looking remarkably at ease. Clint can't claim to be the most perceptive guy around, but as long as there's no blood spatter, he figures all is good for now.

Steve looks surprised to see Tony. "Hey, guys. What's going on?" he asks, his eyes going from Tony, to Clint and back to Tony. "What's wrong?"

Tony looks exasperated, as if the problems should be obvious. "You know I can't protect you outside of this tower. There aren't any magic screens or ways we can track HYDRA agents since I disabled most of their trackers." 

Clint frowns at him. "You have our trackers enabled. You know where we'll be. I'm not going out there as Hawkeye. I'm not even taking a bow. I'm the least recognizable of all the Avengers. Cap isn't wearing his stars and stripes, and hell, nobody knows who Barnes is. Besides, I'm not sure that letting HYDRA know where we are isn't better than cowering here. I'm sick of hiding."

"Great." Tony thrusts his fingers through his hair, spiking it up comically. "I'm not your babysitter, Barton."

"Good thing I don't need one." Clint glares at him. "Have you been talking to Natasha?"

"No, but maybe you should." Natasha's voice makes him wince. She pushes past Tony. "You need a babysitter or a psychiatrist -- right now, I think you need both."

"Natalya?" Bucky's voice is soft. 

Natasha stiffens, pales, but faces him. "My name is Natasha."

"Natalya Romanova." He shakes his head, as if to clear the memory. "I know you."

She meets his eyes fearlessly. "You know nothing about me. Nothing."

If possible, Clint thinks Barnes looks hurt. It's a fleeting expression, but he didn't imagine it. Whoever the Winter Soldier is now, they knew each other as Yasha and Natalya. Clint knows all about shared history. It can be comforting or it can be incredibly messy. He thinks that Natasha and Bucky are the latter. He doesn't want to be between them when they collide. Right now, he just wants to keep things from blowing up. Bucky isn't stable and Natasha is more fire than ice at the moment. He looks at Steve. "Umm, maybe we should get out of here?"

"Yeah, I think that's a good idea." 

Natasha curses in Russian and stalks off. Tony turns to Clint. "You know if she decides to follow you, I'm not going to stop her."

Clint shrugs. "You couldn't stop her any more than you can stop a force of nature." He looks after her, worried, wondering if she will follow them. For the first time in years, he's not relieved to have her at his back.

Tony tosses a set of keys to him. "Take the Audi. It's JARVIS enabled."

Clint, for once, is grateful for Tony's vigilance. "So, where are we headed?"

"Coney Island," Steve says, with the first smile Clint has seen on his face for a while. 

"Okay, Cap. You're in charge," Clint replies.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
 _Steve -- Coney Island_

He hasn't been back here for a while, not since the battle of New York. It hasn't changed much over the years; it's still bright, raucous, gaudy. The air smells like salt, popcorn and grease. If he closes his eyes, it would be a vision in sepia, like the photographs from the 1930s he's seen at the Smithsonian. He glances at Bucky. He expects a scowl. Instead, there is a look of wide-eyed amazement on his face. He turns to Steve. "I have been here before." Not a question. 

"Yeah. We used to hang out here, drink beers, pretend we were big shots. Well, you pretended you were a big shot, I was just here to be your wingman."

Bucky frowns. "Wingman?"

Clint muffles a laugh. "Cap, you pick the one 21st century term that would throw him for a loop." He grins at Bucky. "He was here to keep you from getting drunk and doing something stupid."

Bucky tilts his head. "I did stupid things?"

"No, because I was your wingman." Steve smiles. "I wasn't much use for anything else."

"You were my friend."

"I always said so, and I still do."

Clint sees Bucky's hand twitch nervously and he breaks in, "If you two will stop making moon eyes at each other, I'd kind of like to get a hot dog and scam a few carnies out of stuffed animals for Natasha."

Bucky and Steve look at him like he's lost his mind, then Bucky shrugs. "Sure." He almost sounds like the Bucky Steve knew. 

Clint grins. "Awesome." 

They get hot dogs from Nathan's. Clint has chili and cheese with a garnish of jalapenos. Steve tops his with mustard, ketchup and relish, so all-American that Clint could have predicted it. Bucky looks at the toppings, at Steve, then asks, "What should I have?"

"Have what you like."

"I don't know what I like."

"Bacon, onions, mustard," Steve says without thinking. "But you can have anything. Taste changes."

Bucky tops his with bacon, onions and mustard. They find a table on the boardwalk and sit eating hot dogs and fries and drinking Cokes. They don't stand out, not even Bucky with his long-sleeved t-shirt and black glove. The boardwalk isn't crowded on a weekday afternoon, and Steve can't help watching Bucky and seeing the man who was his best friend, his comrade in arms, his hero. Clint kicks him in the ankle and shakes his head in warning. _Don't get lulled into a false sense of security_. The thought is as clear as if it had been spoken.

Clint hides his concern well. When he's finished his last fry he kicks back and puts his feet up on the vacant chair next to him. "So, Barnes, what do you think of Coney Island hot dogs?"

Bucky regards him thoughtfully. "They taste like I remember." He ducks his head and his hair falls forward. "Why do I remember that, but not who I am?"

Steve really wants to curls his hand around Bucky's, but he heeds Clint's warning. "Maybe all the little pieces will fit together, Buck. It takes time. I mean, I knew who I had been, but I still don't know who I am now."

Clint puts his feet down on the ground. "C'mon, let's shoot targets and win a prize for Nat. It'll be like shooting fish in a barrel."

Buck frowns at him. "Why would we shoot fish in a barrel?"

Clint blinks then grins. "Cap, I think we need a lesson in metaphors."

"I'll add it to my list."

They amble over to the stalls where one of the vendors seems to think he's found a bunch of shills. Clint picks a neon pink bow and blunt-tipped arrows. "So, if I shoot out 10 balloons I win a prize. If I shoot out twenty, I want a prize of my choice."

"It's not as easy as it looks." The guy looks skeptical. 

"Yeah?" Clint nocks an arrow and fires. He doesn't even aim, but takes out the center red balloon. "Look, I musta' got lucky." He nocks another arrow and proceeds to take out the next five balloons. The carnie is starting to look worried. 

"You gotta stand farther back," he says. 

"Okay," Clint agrees without arguing and starts walking backwards until he's halfway across the midway. "How's this?"

The man gapes as Clint nocks another arrow and shoots easily. He clears the board and tells the man to set it up again. Meanwhile, a small crowd is gathering to watch the spectacle. Somebody hollers out, "Who do you think you are? Hawkeye?" The crowd laughs and Clint bows.

"I'll pit my skills against his any day of the week. And I'm doing this with a bow made for a clown." The crowd cheers. 

Steve wishes Clint weren't such a damned showman. The crowd is making him nervous even though they seem non-threatening. Bucky is picking up on his nerves, his body is tense, his hands flexing, his eyes coding the area. It's not a good sign.

Steve touches Bucky's shoulder. "We'll get out of here as soon as Clint gets his prize."

Bucky nods, but his gaze continues scanning the crowd. The cheers grow louder as Clint clears the board and runs over to the booth. He shakes the vendor's hand and thanks him for being a stand-up guy. He puts a fifty in the tip jar, then he chooses a four foot tall, purple T-rex. He steps away from the booth and holds up his trophy. In that moment, frozen in time, Steve suddenly feels disaster send a chill down his spine. He turns, catches a glint of something.

"Clint! Shooter!" He yells as Bucky shoves him to the ground. It's too late. A red mist rises from Clint's body. His eyes startle wide, and he crumples to the pavement. "Call 911!" Steve hollers to the crowd. He runs over to Clint's still body. _No, God, no …_

Clint isn't a super-soldier. He's just a human being; frail flesh and fragile bone. Steve kneels, rips his shirt open and sees blood welling too fast from a hole high on his chest. The exit wound in the back is ragged and bleeding hard. Somebody shoves a handful of napkins into his hands. Bucky.

He is pale, shaking. "Stay with him. I'll go after the shooter."

"No!"

"You are not my Captain," Bucky hisses. "If it is HYDRA, it is me that they want. You save your friend. I am lost already." He shoves his way through the crowd and takes off running. 

There are too many people crowding around Steve. He can't relinquish the pressure on the wound to chase after Bucky. The ambulance screams up, the crowd parting when the paramedics push through. When Steve steps away from Clint to give him over to the paramedics, Bucky has vanished. 

Steve has never felt failure so acutely. He shoves that self-flagellation aside. "Where are you taking him?" he asks the medics. 

"Lutheran Medical, Level 1 Trauma. You riding with us?"

"Yeah. I'm riding with you." Steve digs out his cell phone and calls Tony. Then he takes Clint's cold hand in his warm one. "Hang in there, Clint," he urges. "You can do this. Just hold on." The bandages are nearly soaked through by the time they pull into the ambulance bay, even though it hasn't taken more than ten minutes to get to the hospital. 

Clint is whisked off to a treatment room and Steve collapses on a hard chair. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, which feel like they have bits of glass ground into them. 

"It's not your fault."

He lifts bleary eyes to meet Natasha's. "What are you doing here?"

"I wasn't going to let you out of my sight with Clint and the Winter Soldier in tow." She sits next to him. 

"James. His name is James Buchanan Barnes."

Natasha shrugs. "James. Yasha. Winter Soldier. He's gone."

Steve nods. "Vanished like a ghost. Like before."

"Not like before." Natasha shakes her head. "He is running now. He is the prey, not the hunter." 

Steve knows she is right. As torn as he is, he has to stay focused on what he can do rather than what he wants to do, which is to take off after Bucky. "We should call Coulson."

"Not until we know more. He is a target as well." She looks worried, a little pale. 

"I'm sorry, Natasha," he sighs. "So sorry." He puts his arm around her shoulders; he isn't sure if it is for her comfort or his. She twines her fingers through his. They sit like that, close and quiet, and wait. 

 

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding Bucky is a little like a high risk game of _Hide and Seek_ plus _Tag, You're It._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life has slowed the pace of my writing and posting, so I apologize for the wait. Plus a huge thanks to Weeping Naiad for wrangling tenses, awkward phrasing and repetitions. You're awesome!

Chapter 4

_Bucky_

He knows the direction the shot came from. He finds the building, a brick warehouse structure where maintenance equipment is stowed. It's old, with arched windows. Nobody is around, though soon cops will be swarming as they hunt for the shooter. He finds a door ajar, the rusty lock askew. He pushes through. There are footprints on the dusty floor; one set coming and going. The shooter has fled. Bucky can't risk leaving his own prints, but he knows the grip-pattern well. These boots are made in Russia. 

He backs through the door then walks the perimeter of the building looking for any signs of the shooter or guards until he finds a fire-escape. He leaps, catching the bottom with his metal hand and using his weight to pull it down. He takes the steps cautiously, as silently as a man with his skills can, to the top floor. The roof is still ten feet above his head, but the bricks are rough, some of them deeply pitted and the mortar is loose. Bucky has free-climbed many buildings less forgiving than this one. His muscles remember this … he pulls himself up rolling cautiously over the low wall that crowns the flat roof. He isn't sure what he is looking for until he sees the boot print in the gravel -- the same Russian-made soles that had left the imprints in the dust downstairs. He kneels in the gravel, and touches the imprint. 

_Hydra._ They've sent the Red Room after him. He rises and stands on the rooftop, the wind ruffling his hair. There are dark clouds looming on the horizon, and a flicker of lightning dancing along the edge of the storm. The midway below him is clearing rapidly as people head for cover, for their cars, for the subways. He catches a glint of something in the corner near the far wall. Hydra assassins were never careless in the old days. He picks up the shell casing. They have changed; become arrogant and complacent. He studies the cartridge. It too, is Russian made, an AK-47. He has used one many times. The memory twists his stomach and he spits out bile. He would be concerned about DNA, but the storm will wash any trace evidence away before the police investigate. He places the casing back where he found it as the darkness of the clouds covers the last rays of the sun. 

Lightning forks across the sky, followed by deep rolls of thunder that he can feel vibrating through his body. Within minutes, the strobe of the lightning is nearly constant and the thunder is cracking like doom overhead. He has to get off the roof and find someplace to wait out the storm. He drops to his knees and crawls to the wall, then cautiously climbs over and drops to the highest landing of the fire escape as the clouds rip open.

He's soaked in less than a minute. His hair streams rain down his shirt, into his eyes. He can feel it sliding down his spine like icy fingers. His skin remembers other fingers, cold, impersonal, gloved as they trail over his body, fastening restraints, touching him in ways that make him sick. He can't hold on and falls to the ground from the fire escape, landing awkwardly and twisting his ankle. It hurts, but he's been hurt so badly in the past that he ignores it. The lightning is dancing around the edges of his vision. He's shivering, the rain is not letting up, and he doesn't know where to go. 

He limps away from the carnival, hunched against the cold. He finds himself taking streets that he seems to know by some innate instinct, homing in on something he doesn't remember. The sidewalks are deserted except for homeless guys and people rushing to get out of the storm. He takes refuge in alleys, criss-crossing his way to someplace … Why are these roads so familiar?

He takes an alley back to the main thoroughfare and looks up at the building. The red bricks are gleaming with rain, the streetlamps are dim, but he _knows_ this place. It is the building in Steve's drawing. The windows are mostly boarded up except for the retail space on street level which has a _For Rent_ sign on it. Bucky returns to the alley. He slides his fingers across the bricks to a wooden door marked as the construction entrance. He breaks the hasp of the lock with his metal arm and slips inside, closing the door behind him. It's dark as pitch, but his eyes adapt quickly to the dim light leaking around the plywood and the skylights three stories up. 

He finds the stairs, still with old wrought-iron and wood railings, and goes up a flight. Everything is under construction, but the doors to the apartments are open and Bucky takes cautious steps inside. The front window still has the old, wavy glass in the panes; etched and pitted by years of New York pollution. Bucky stands out of the line of sight and looks out on the streets. He slides to the floor, his ankle throbbing, his head aching. Serum or not, he feels sick and beaten-down. There is a workman's jacket hanging on a nail next to him. He pulls it loose and wraps it around his shivering body. He needs food, but he doesn't have any. It's not like he planned on going on the run. He closes his eyes. 

He will rest tonight. Tomorrow, he will find what he needs. Tomorrow, he will hunt.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
 _Steve_

Natasha rouses Steve by poking him in the ribs. He startles awake, his hands automatically curling into fists before he realizes that there is a young woman in hospital scrubs standing in front of them. She has taken off the cap covering her hair, and looks dishevelled and weary. 

"Are you here with Mr. Barton?"

"Yes!" Steve and Natasha answer as one.

The doctor looks at the chart in her hands, and back to Steve. "Philip J. Coulson?"

Steve shakes his head. "No." To his surprise, Natasha speaks up.

"I'm listed as his next of kin. Natasha Romanov. Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of Captain Rogers." 

The doctor looks surprised. "Captain America?"

"Right now, I'm just Steve Rogers. How is he?" Natasha's hand is small and cold in his as she looks up at the doctor. Steve tightens his grip.

"He's in recovery. He's a lucky man. The bullet went through with little impact on any major organs. It did, however, clip his subclavian artery, which is why he lost so much blood. We've repaired that, and barring any complications, he should by up and around in a few days."

" _Slava Bogu_ Natasha murmurs in Russian. It's a phrase he remembers from his old Russian neighbor in Brooklyn. Steve has never heard Natasha pray before, so he assumes it's an old, ingrained habit.

"When can we see him?"

"He's in Recovery. We won't move him for several hours, at least. You should go home. We'll contact you when he's awake. He'll be in SICU for the day. Very limited visitation."

Natasha takes out a business card. It's plain, with just her name and phone number on it. "Ask for Natasha. The call will be forwarded."

"I'm staying," Steve says.

"What about …?" Natasha queries delicately. 

"I have a pretty good idea where he is. I can bring him in."

Natasha stands up. She seems so small next to him, her hand is gentle on his face. "Steve, we don't know how much of him is the Winter Soldier and how much of him is your friend. If Hydra has found him, he could be waiting to kill you." Her hand drifts to his forearm. 

It's the same old song and dance. He doesn't want to hear it again. "That's a risk I'm willing to take. I don't believe he'd go willingly with Hydra."

"I wasn't willing to go to the Red Room, but they took me!" Natasha's fingers tighten on his arm. "You know what Hydra is capable of doing. At least wait for Coulson. I have to call him. He'll be here."

"Coulson needs to be with Clint." Steve pulls free from from her grip. "I'm not afraid of Bucky, or the Winter Soldier." 

"You should be."

He laughs; a short rough sound. "You can tell me I told you so if things go ballistic. Until then, I'm fine." He kisses her on the top of her head, which he knows will infuriate her, then lopes away before she can deck him. Her Russian curses follow him down the hall, making him smile. He turns and salutes her.

His first stop is Avengers tower for his shield. Tony and Bruce are nowhere in sight, and he's relieved because Tony would try to argue him out of what he needs to do. It's just simpler this way. Overhead, the skies are darkening as a storm approaches. He thinks regretfully of his waterproof uniform. He'll have no such luck tonight. Aside from the recognition factor; he has no idea how Bucky would react to seeing him as the "enemy" again. He chooses a waterproof motorcycle jacket, but as he prepares the storm worsens. The rain doesn't bother him, but the lightning does; he'll be a walking lightning rod with the shield. He's not Thor, who draws power from the storm. He's just a man and he really doesn't want to get fried. 

He's looking out the window at the storm when the door opens and Tony comes into the room. There is a smear of grease on his forehead and a drink in his hand. "How's Barton?" 

"Out of surgery. The docs think he'll be okay."

"Good." He frowns at Steve. "Where's your new best friend? Or your new oldest best friend?"

"Bucky vanished in the chaos following the shooting. He said he was going after the shooter."

"But?" He's picked up on the doubts in Steve's voice. "You don't think he'll come back?"

"I think that Hydra is behind this and that they would do _anything_ to get the Winter Soldier back in their ranks." 

"Or get their hands on Captain America."

Steve isn't as horrified at the implication as he should have been. "Bucky wouldn't betray me."

Tony's brow lifts. "Tell me that wasn't at the back of your mind?" When Steve doesn't reply, Tony points an accusing finger at him. "I'm right. You're too smart to go into this blind."

"Are you offering to be back-up?"

"Me? No. Iron Man." 

"No thanks. I don't want Bucky freaking out on me."

"He has to know about Iron Man. I'm not exactly a state secret." 

"Tony, I appreciate the offer, but this is something I have to do on my own."

"I'll be tracking you. At the first hint of trouble, I'll be there to pull your ass out of the fire. Coulson would be livid if I wasn't."

"I'll be fine," Steve says, but still feels a warmth in his heart that he has somebody at his back. He misses Sam, but Sam is in D.C. dealing with a flood of returning vets with pretty serious issues. Steve isn't selfish enough to deny others help. To him, every single one of those traumatized vets are Bucky. "After the last two years, nothing will surprise me."

"Hydra sure surprised the Hell out of Nick Fury and look where he ended up." 

Steve tilts his head. "Not the same thing, Tony. Look, I'll be alright." He slings his shield across his back. Do you know when Coulson will get here?"

"Rhodey has him on a quinjet as we speak. Maybe an hour out."

Steve nods, pulls on a pair of leather gloves and gives Tony a sidelong look. "Don't wait up for me, dad."

"Ain't gonna happen," Tony calls out with a grin. He tosses a set of keys. "Take the SUV. It's as close to an armored tank as you can get in New York and still be street-legal."

Steve catches the keys, nods and heads down to the garage. The SUV is dark and sleek for all its alleged pedigree. The motor purrs when Steve starts it up. He has to admit that it's a better vehicle to be out in during a thunderstorm; a better vehicle to transport an unconscious Bucky, because Steve will bring him back even if he has to knock him senseless -- or if he finds him near death. 

The roads are like rivers when he leaves, but by the time he reaches Brooklyn, the worst of the storm has passed and the rain has slowed enough that it isn't a hindrance to movement. Steve parks the van two blocks from the beginning of his search grid. The wind has freshened from the west, sweeping away the scent of trash, mold and the faint reek of sewage that hung in hot summer the air. He remembers the scent well; it hasn't changed over the years. 

The streets are familiar, even in the semi-darkness. The storm has driven most residents indoors, and since this block is mostly under construction few residents are out and most businesses are shuttered and abandoned. He sticks to the shadows, cautious of alleys and rooftops where Hydra ambushes might be laid or assassins poised to kill. He keeps walking down old and familiar ways, until he reaches the one building he's been focusing on; the old brownstone apartment he and Bucky had lived in before the war. The shoe factory had stripped most of the architectural details from the lower floors. Only the top floor retains the arched windows and weathered brick of the brownstone. 

He walks to the back of the building where the old fire escape still clings to the walls like rusty ivy. He doesn't trust it to take his weight, but there is a back door the construction crews use. The lock is broken. The raw ends of the steel hasp glint in the streetlights. The cuts are new. His heart beats in his chest painfully as he starts up the stairs. He has been trained in stealth; his rubber-soled boots make no sound, but the stairs are old and slightly warped. He sticks close to the edges of the risers where the wood is more stable. He pauses, looks at the step above the one he's standing on. There is a clear impression of a boot left in the dust. The tread is the same as Steve's. 

He's on the top floor now, there is nowhere else to go. Four doors face off the hall, but only one apartment would give a clear view of the street. The door is closed, but Steve gives it a slight push with two fingers. It opens silently. He slips inside. The room is lit by the streetlight outside, the windows are dappled with rain. There is a huddled shape in the corner, light glinting off metal in the shape of a hand. Steve sighs softly and sinks to the floor. 

Bucky's pulled a paint-spattered workman's coat over his body. It's canvas, lined with flannel and it makes Steve flash back to the past, when he and Bucky had lived here. If he closes his eyes, he can smell the boiled cabbage and onions, the moist mildew of the faded brown wallpaper that was peeling off the walls. They lived in a one-bedroom walk-up with dicey heat, a gas stove that they were afraid to use, and a living room with a lumpy couch that they both slept on more than on the thin mattress on the cot in the bedroom. Mrs. O'Leary, the seamstress who lived down the hall, had made them a quilt out of flannel and fabric scraps. They huddled under that old quilt; sometimes when Steve was shaking with fever, others when Bucky returned after he finished up a long shift at the docks. He'd come in with salt-stained clothes and chilblains on his fingers and feet. 

They took care of each other. Bucky begging chicken carcasses from the butcher and wilted vegetables that couldn't be sold by the green grocer on the corner so Steve could have soup when he was sick. If Bucky was suffering, Steve would throw caution to the winds and heat water for compresses to warm Bucky's hands and feet. They they would huddle close, Bucky's arms wrapped around Steve's skinny frame, and Steve curled up like he could will his own meager heat into Bucky. They were physically close, always had been, and as they matured, their kisses had changed from a token of comfort to something more intense and deep. They had never been intimate, not in that sense. He had been too fragile and Bucky had been too tired, and then he was in the army and everything changed. 

That seems like, and maybe was, two lifetimes ago. 

"You had to follow me." Bucky's voice jerks Steve back to the present so fast that it takes a moment for things to focus. 

"I didn't have much of a choice."

"I didn't ask you."

"Yeah, well, you're not the boss of me." 

Bucky laughs softly, like the words are an anachronism. "Barton?"

"Recovering. He's not like us. It will take a while."

"It's good he's okay. It was Hydra," he continues quietly, his metal finger scraping softly on the wood floor. "I don't think Clint was the target. I think it was you." He pauses. "Any sign of them out there?"

"No."

"In the morning, there will be. We should get out of here." He starts to get up, then his breath catches.

"Are you hurt?" Steve asks. 

"It hurts, not like before. Not bad enough for pain killers."

It's not much of a reassurance. "Let me take a look?"

"Nothing to see."

"Show me." This time it's not a query. 

Bucky sighs and unlaces his boot. "Sprained ankle. It will be better in a few hours." 

Steve touches Bucky's ankle. It's only slightly swollen, but the skin is cold. "You're like ice."

"Watch out who you call popsicle, pop." Bucky jokes. 

He sounds so much like the Bucky Steve remembers that he has to chuckle. Bucky could be, and can still be charming. Traitorously, he wonders if this is an act, but the curve of Bucky's mouth looks sweet and vulnerable. He finishes lacing Bucky's boot up. "Let's get out of here."

"I don't think so. Sorry, Stevie." Steve is so enchanted by Bucky's charm that he doesn't notice Bucky slowly bringing his metal arm out from beneath the coat, curling his fingers into a fist. He clubs Steve hard, felling him. Steve doesn't even have time to look surprised as he falls across Bucky's legs. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
 _Bucky_

Bucky holds the bright metal of his arm to Steve's mouth, smiling a bit when he sees the mist. Steve's pulse is strong and steady. Bucky doesn't fool himself into believing he has more than a few minutes before Steve comes to. 

He can't risk Hydra capturing Steve, torturing him as he had been tortured, turning Steve into an ugly mockery of what Captain America represents; courage, honor, truth, and kindness. He _can't_. They can send every S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, every Avenger against him. He can't lose Steve. The world can't lose Captain America.

Bucky thinks about covering Steve with the jacket, but it's not like he'll need it. Instead Bucky just whispers, "Sorry, Steve. Hope you figure out why I did it." He shrugs into the coat. It's bulky enough to cover his metal arm easily, even over the long-sleeved shirt he is wearing. He takes a cap from a hook and pulls the bill low. He doesn't know where to go, but it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that he'll be alone when Hydra finds him. 

TBC

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a day late posting this because I had a long week at work and a busy birthday weekend. I'm surprised I have anything written!
> 
> Also, this is getting to the point where I think I need a beta reader. Any volunteers?


End file.
